La Bon Moulin Rouge
by Laura Fones
Summary: ChristianChina Doll and a bit of Toulouse thrown in for good measure: Please don't flame me, I really don't like flames, so just sit back and read this quaint little story about a girl too stubborn to really lend her love...
1. Arrival

Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge  
  
Author: Laura Fones  
  
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com  
  
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.  
  
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse  
  
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?  
  
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Paris-1900  
  
No one had forgotten him; no one lacked so much heart as to push him from their minds. He now existed as a whispered legend, a modern day player in an all too indulgent Greek tragedy. Sad though that his legend faded further and further back in time as Satine's once notorious name was forgotten with the descending temperature of her body. To be entirely fair, everyone who witnessed the event etched the details and recalled with alarming acuteness both parties in the colorful montage of her demise. It was dramatic, it was beautiful, and it was worthy of the stage.  
  
Now Christian was feared and the hotel that once cased the happiness so inherent to his idealistic views was as a dim, unassailable tower, enveloping his misery and inebriation. This, more probable than any other thing, was what made him strangely alluring to me. Also, in honesty, after the tragic and sudden demolition of what had served as my home for so terribly long, I had been left without option. Desperation, or perhaps madness, had driven me to do what even the great (or rather, tiny) Toulouse had dreaded: arrive upon Christian's doorstep.  
  
Anxiously, I stared at the partition, attempting with my looks to penetrate the extraordinary sadness that encompassed its area. Finally I rallied courage and knocked lightly against the plate of wood. It was almost frightening to hear the non-existence of sound on the other side, while still hearing with painful minutiae every other noise around me.  
  
Cautiously I whispered against the divider, "Monsieur Christian?" There was no appreciable answer. "Are you in there?" I paused, "Please, are you there?" Suddenly a soft groaning, the unmistakable indication of post- weeping, broke the emptiness behind the door and indicated the existence of a living being.  
  
I was almost surprised that my presence was acknowledged, but the unsteady door opened and exposed the keeper of the apartment overlooking my burnt locale. "Yes, what is it?" Words were unfamiliar with the movements of his lips, or perhaps it was just that he was still experiencing in his speech the aftermath of his apparent crying. The remnants of saline droplets still held to the soft contours of his now bearded cheeks.  
  
"Christian?" He seemed foreign to me and my eyes crawled over each line of his face to locate the oddity. "I'm very sorry but." I apologized and quickly came to the point. "I have no one else to ask."  
  
He stopped me mid-sentence and inquired curiously, "Who are you?"  
  
This halted my plea and I looked up at him strangely, "Christian, don't you remember me?" I sighed in realization of the passing of time and nodded, chuckling to myself a bit, "No, I don't suppose you do. I'd imagine you don't recall any of us with the least particularity." I smiled at him and shifted my hips to one side, "It's me. China Doll?" I spoke warily. "From the Moulin Rouge." I looked out the window behind him, remembering the flames. "From what was once the Moulin Rouge."  
  
With a slightly wounded expression he followed my gaze, then returned his glance to me, nodding slightly. "Yes, I remember you."  
  
"With all vagueness I'd suspect." I tilted my head a bit, looking up and seeing the incongruity in his face slowly lessen. "To be honest, I came to ask for lodging."  
  
"Well, if you ask the woman down the stairs, I'm sure there's a vacancy." He began congenially enough, but I lifted a hand to cease his helpful advice.  
  
"But I don't have any money." I said and answered his inevitable question, "I've tapped out all my immediate resources, believe me, so I came to see if. you must understand, I haven't anywhere else to go," I looked down momentarily and explained in unnecessary detail, "And I know I have no right to ask, and I know I should probably leave this horrible place, but beyond it I have no home." I glanced into his heavy lidded eyes with a rueful smile, "Montmartre is my home, I couldn't leave it for the world." My eyebrow quirked at the recognition in his haunted irises, as if my words were somehow familiar to him. "What is it?"  
  
He shook his head, seemingly batting away his previous thoughts, and he attempted a smile, "Nothing," He paused introspectively, "Truly, it's nothing.would you like to come in?" I gestured appreciatively and crossed the threshold. Gingerly I took to a position near the window, half- heartedly enjoying the view with some bit of bitterness.  
  
Again a remorseful smile found a place on my unvarnished lips and I glanced at him, "It was beautiful when lit," I indicated the skeleton foundation just meters below the sill. "I imagine the flames only added to its splendor. I'm sure it would have been exquisite to watch from a distance."  
  
"It was horrible to watch." He corrected me softly, almost indistinctly considering his significant distance from me.  
  
"You've no idea." I shook my head, mentally recounting the seemingly unimportant details of its occurrence, trying to make sense of all of it. "Ahh well, we all have our disappointments and loss." I shrugged a bit, "I suppose we must all progress somehow." I turned to him. "You're doing well?" And if the state of his apartment was to attest, my question should not have been dignified with an answer.  
  
In truth, my question was not answered, he simply pointed to his dust powdered typewriter and the blank pages beside it. I nodded in concession, for I hadn't expected better even though so much time had passed. I knew I shouldn't press, so I simply left it at that. "I know it's rather inconvenient for you, but could I stay the night, I reserve you any right to say no." I tried to be light hearted.  
  
"You can have the bed if you'd like." He offered. It rather surprised me his sociability throughout our encounter, though it was a great relief.  
  
I smiled good-heartedly and asked, "But don't you sleep on it? I'd hate to cause you any difficulty."  
  
"I rarely sleep."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Can I get your bags?" He politely requested, extending his hand in readiness to aid me.  
  
"I have just the one," I said, quickly retrieving it from the doorway, and on my journey back, placing Christian's hand again at his side, "But thank you." I laid the worn leather case against the naked bed and took a place beside it. "It just has some clothes and a couple of works of mine."  
  
"Works?" He questioned, "Does that mean you're a--"  
  
"Writer in whore's clothing?" I smiled at his rather exposed surprise and nodded more to myself than to him. "I'm afraid it's true." I waited a beat before continuing, drawing from memory my original ambitions, "Everyone comes here for a reason, don't they?" His focus lingered on my bag and I explained to him, "I don't think my writing is as modern as Bohemians profess theirs to be, I dabble more in older techniques." I lifted from my case a small grouping of paper, "I suppose I focus mainly on the ideals of Romanticism."  
  
"May I?" He indicated the papers and I, without vacillation, gave them to him. He looked inquisitively at the pages, then looked toward me. "If you don't mind my asking, where are you from originally?"  
  
"Versailles." I answered, "Not horribly far from Paris."  
  
"Truly?" He inquired, with some incredulity readily perceptible in his tone.  
  
"Yes," I chuckled a bit at his suspicious intonation and shrugged, "I suppose it's a disappointment that I'm not as exotic as everyone considers me." His features softened again and he continued to read.  
  
Again he looked up from the text, "How can you claim not to be Bohemian?" He indicated the reading material that he was apparently enjoying, "This is a testament to what we believe."  
  
My expression again changed, rather unbelieving of his innocence, "The ideals of truth, freedom, beauty, and love are by no means new." I smiled a bit as he observed my statement with fascination, "They just happen to be popular right now."  
  
"I always had my doubt." He smiled sheepishly, and for a very slight moment, I could see no trace of angst on his face. Alas, the moment was too short to enjoy and he again began reading, this time leaning against a wall as varying miens chased across his face.  
  
While he continued on my manuscript, I relaxed into a more settling position and searched through my bag, organizing it without much effort even though it had been packed in haste.  
  
Immeasurably long moments later, Christian cleared his throat as an indication that he had completed his task. "A fan of Victor Hugo's I gather?" He posed the question with the quality of unnatural intuition.  
  
"Yes," I said, rather surprised he'd be so astute as to become familiar with my influences. "How did you guess?"  
  
"Because no one but an enthusiast of his could have written that." He said, almost as if it pained him in some way. "You're very talented."  
  
"Thank you," I smiled softly and at that moment yawned, the proposition of sleep suddenly introduced in the most appealing manner.  
  
"How long has it been since you slept?" He asked, taking almost too immediate notice of my fatigue.  
  
"Far too long.days maybe," I answered, tilting my head wearily, "It used to be I would never want to sleep, but now I find it the most attractive idea in the world."  
  
"Please do." He said and motioned in such a way that suggested the bed was mine to dispose of.  
  
"Thank you." I idled little time before stretching out and retiring into the deep recesses of sleep.  
  
I slept that night without incident of nightmares (which, in truth, for me was a rarity) or even the intrusion of dreamed reality. The only break I must say was not unexpected, as I awoke once to the weeping of a man who had lost his love, and for whom sleep was no escape.  
  
It was just before dawn when I awoke, ironically the time when I usually succumbed to exhaustion. And it was then that I was aroused by, of all things, the lack of a presence in the room. Moaning slightly as I shifted positions to relieve my neck of strain, I noticed the 'presence' had gone out onto the deteriorating wood of the balcony. As my single-mindedness returned to me bit by tiny bit, I made aware of the soft undertow of a song. one I would surely recognize as my consciousness returned. Christian then retreated from the balcony and back inside, crossing the room only to momentarily glare with contempt at his typewriter and continue to the wall where, I discovered, he spends the majority of his time.  
  
"Why are you so afraid of it?" The inquiry was released by lips that had not yet learned the virtues of silent contemplation and I quickly amended the question. "I'm sorry...it doesn't matter."  
  
"It's alright." He endeavored to grant me a pardoning grin, but fell a bit short and simply said, "It's a perfectly natural question."  
  
"You don't need to answer," I replied. "It was stupid of me to ask."  
  
"I wonder," He said, rather rapidly changing the subject, "You're obviously well educated, and yet, you were a can-can dancer.it just seems a bit unorthodox."  
  
"The same query could be put to you Monsieur Christian." I countered good- naturedly.  
  
"The so called Revolution," He answered straightforwardly enough, "I wanted to write, to live my own life."  
  
"And makes you believe that wasn't my very motivation?" I said, in speech more solemn than was entirely de rigueur.  
  
"I see," He accepted my answer and asked no more, sharing the same tolerance for me as I had for him in never delving deeply.  
  
"Yes," I continued, "I wanted to dedicate my life to my writing. be a starving poet, you know? As for the can-can dancing, I think it's only fair to allow blame to rest on youthful folly." He smiled in the slightest way and I took the opportunity to ask, "Why have you been so kind to me, Christian?"  
  
He made his expression the lazy face of ignorance and responded, "What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, your actual knowledge of me spans no further than a day, which reason states, is a rather short time in which to gain your trust," I spoke, turning my hands over as pans of a scale and weighed only the one side. "And given that, you welcome me into your place of residence, act congenially, and try as best you can to help me.all the while, you're still." I should have ceased my unreasonable argument then and there, but I was compelled to finish. "Grieving." I questioned momentarily if the mere mention of grief would upset him. Studying his look with care, and perhaps in due part to the nearly numinous intuition writers are fabled to possess, I came to a realization as his gaze lingered on his typewriter. "You haven't forgotten her at all, have you?"  
  
He shook his head painfully and I could see a soft gleam coating the darkened lines of his eyes. "Christian." It seemed as though the softness of my tone wounded him and he began to quietly cry. I chided myself and moved to hold him by the shoulders to steady him. This tiny act only served to increase his angst and led him to sobbing, at which point he welcomed my proffered arms and dampened them in his misery.  
  
His body swayed and I could no longer hold his weight as well as my own. As a result I moved us onto the floorboards, allowing him to adopt a fetal position while still lying in my arms. Internally, I wished I could draw from him some of the burden that he suffered and displace it. How he could tolerate simply looking at me when I was only a reminder of his loss.  
  
It was then, in his state, that I fell prey to love, and I held him tighter, making our bodies move in isochronisms, both being racked equally by his sobs. It was cruel for him to be left alone, abandoned in his condition without any sort of release or diversion. It was ludicrous for anyone to fear him; he was not a creature to be feared, but a man who was to be consoled.  
  
Gently I spoke to him, "Christian, you must expel this sorrow onto paper," I gently kissed his cheek as I would in soothing a child, "You can't ever expect peace if you don't." He shook his head, whimpering. "Yes," I reinforced in the kindliest of voices, "Do you remember your promise to her Christian?"  
  
"Yes," The straining accent was barely to be heard save for the vibrations of his speech that I felt discharge through his body.  
  
"Do you want to forget her?" He shook his head violently and I calmed him with gentle stroking, "Then remember her on the page." I made him look at me as I intoned with vehemence, "Make everyone remember her Christian. Make her love your masterpiece." I paused and sighed with the slightest hint of a voice, "It's been a year.don't let her fade into the darkness." He nodded, accepting everything I had told him and suddenly it was he who held me tightly against him, making my entire frame shudder from his withheld sobs.  
  
He began again, weeping onto my shoulder as my head lay limply upon his, spent from the energy he had exerted. Rocking me as if I were his dead love, my own tears marked his arms and I drew from him the understanding two authors share when creativity is useless. 


	2. Not a Saint

Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge  
  
Author: Laura Fones  
  
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com  
  
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.  
  
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse  
  
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?  
  
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 2  
  
After that intimacy had passed, I knew I was to watch from a distance. I observed his tears, and I observed his contemptuous looks to his instrument of composition, I also became enthralled by his actions of tossing and turning in the writer's seat. Simple songs of remembrance eased him into the written word, and it was a fortnight before the typewriter ever found use.  
  
The first day was the most difficult, as often exposition proves its dominance in the impenetrability of an exceptional story. But Christian didn't approach it as would a fiction writer begging for a way to occupy a reader's interest, instead he realized that in beginning he no longer could sit idly in the deep depressions grief had driven him to enjoy.  
  
I heard the gentle clicking that indicated familiar operation and saw the virgin paper quickly filled with the genius' unhappiness. Everything in the room became mute as the first page finally found peace on the antique desk. That was the signal that that my voluntary incarceration inside the disordered apartment had been lifted and I allowed myself to leave Christian.  
  
Truly Montmartre was a despicable place, but a place into which I was well versed in custom. And although it was for years my home, the sudden revival of familiarity shocked my senses as the village air came into contact with a body restricted to such a small area for so long a spell. Moments were taken in growing accustomed to the low murmurs of city streets before I could again differentiate voice from sound and continue to walk without confusion.  
  
It is not a lonesome task to clear one's head of stir craziness I soon found as I was almost immediately assaulted by a dear, awfully missed acquaintance wandering the street.  
  
"Mademoiselle," Her salutation encroached on me from behind, "If I hadn't seen you this instant I would have taken you for dead."  
  
"Ahh, my dear friend Camille," My bemused tone and sudden cease of step proved to her I'd placed the voice immediately. "I've counted the seconds since our parting."  
  
"Forever the wag," The fair-featured colleen smiled, joining me at the side and continuing to walk.  
  
"Only when compared to your narrow wits." Our conversation was, and had always been, conducted in malicious, but harmless, jest.  
  
"And how is it you survive my dear friend?" Camille intoned with simulated curiosity, "Is it on your wits alone? I would probably perish if such a thing was expected of me."  
  
"Well that's the luck of the Irish I suppose," My tone, as she was accustomed, lacked cruelty, "You're given the beauty to prostitute yourself but not the intellect to survive."  
  
Her tone at once became genuinely concerned, "I saw you leaving the Hotel Blanche, and I wondered if it was possible that our bel auteur was falling back onto old habits?"  
  
"My dear Gaelic girl," I defiantly scolded my elder, "I would never do such a thing, you know it as well as I do." Offhandedly I explained, "I've been staying with a friend, nothing more."  
  
"This friend of yours isn't to be found at the bottom of a liquor bottle perchance, is he?" Camille's voice held the consistency so heavily associated with sobriety it was almost comical.  
  
"Not that I've seen." I assured her.  
  
"Well, I tell my girls never to drink," She slowed her pace to sauntering steps as a potential customer passed us on the walkway. She, upon his passing, resumed her stride and finished her question, "So, this sober friend of yours, what's his name?"  
  
"Why do you assume it's a man?"  
  
"Because every women in this town is either lying in a bordello or making her way on the streets," Camille lost her good-natured tone, "And god forbid you soil yourself with folks like that."  
  
"I'm in here with you, aren't I?"  
  
"But did you even attempt seek me out?" When I gave pause she had won her argument. "His name?"  
  
"Christian." I stated simply.  
  
"Is he new," She asked, "I haven't had him as a client."  
  
"No one has," I informed he. "I somehow doubt that they will."  
  
"Is he a cleric," She teased. "Have you converted without my knowledge?"  
  
"No," I denied intensely, "And it's my sincere hope that I never do. Christian is a writer, not a saint."  
  
"A writer?" She appeared confused; "You don't mean the Moulin's playwright, do you?"  
  
"You know of him?"  
  
"Every strumpet in Montmartre knows of him." She proclaimed. "Is it true?"  
  
"Is what true?"  
  
"That he is responsible for the Moulin's downfall," She clarified in a low, conspiring manner. "That he begun it all?"  
  
"Of course it's not true!" I hissed suddenly, and then lowered my tone to near inaudibility, as if sharing with her some momentous secret. "The Moulin Rouge may have fallen around him, but he was most definitely not the cause. Correct anyone who considers such a lie."  
  
"A bit severe my dear Chinoise," Camille intoned sweetly in an attempt to keep the peace, "I believe you."  
  
"Are you heartless?" I asked coldly.  
  
"Oh I certainly hope not." Camille chuckled, "Come now, the rumor that walks the streets can only survive so long; it will pass."  
  
"It's been almost a year," I said, "Don't you think its passing is a bit overdue?" Dropping my head for a moment, I surrendered the topic. "It just feels like he doesn't belong here."  
  
"Ahh, such a pretty thing, even in your state," Camille remarked on the unkempt appearance I had developed over my time locked away in a dank flat, "You think too much."  
  
"You'd find me a bore if I didn't." I challenged.  
  
"Certainly not!" She exclaimed, "I'd find you a job."  
  
"You're wasting your time, Camille."  
  
"Pity," Her brogue became increasingly acute, "You'd be such a treasure if we could just get you back into those signature garter belts."  
  
"And you'd be such a wonderful woman if only you'd let your foot up from the brothel," I shrugged, "It's not as if it matters though, is it, neither of us will." Smiling a bit, I breathed deeply, "Montmartre is wonderful."  
  
"Dear girl, where have you been cooped up?" She freed a bitter chuckle at my actions. "The air of Montmartre is arguably the worst in the world, what happened to make you feel otherwise?"  
  
"A fortnight of neglect perhaps," A wry expression adorned my otherwise undecorated face, "It's pleasant to return to the realm of the living."  
  
"We're no more alive than your friend I'd gather," Chiding me like a small child she lifted my chin, "But if he dares to neglect such a precious lass, then shame on his family for it."  
  
"I don't expect that would result in much of a reaction from him," I smiled, "But all the same, I appreciate the sentiment."  
  
"And what is it you are doing to occupy your time?" She droned, "Certainly you can't find satisfaction in the midst of neglect."  
  
"You truly believe I'm incapable of anything other than whoring myself, don't you?" I accused.  
  
"Women in this town are good for nothing else, dear," She said in a seemingly sage tone, "It's sad but true."  
  
"I'm glad I don't have such a depressing perspective," My tone poured moral superiority: my mortal fault. "And I pity you for it."  
  
"Pity me for nothing," Camille responded calmly, "I'm not the one who would have starved a month ago without my care."  
  
"It is better to be insolvent than to be nefarious."  
  
After moments of musing, content smile adorning her face, she murmured, "Did Aesop advise you on that?" She had the daring to taunt, "Or have you finally progressed past the 'hack' phase in writing?"  
  
"Good day, Camille," I smiled condescendingly as I imparted the civility, as it was accepted by both individuals that the conversation had expired in pleasantries. "I wish you luck in collecting your wealth. Lechery must support your needs so well."  
  
I left her on the sidewalk with full knowledge that I would forgive the grievances she had committed, just as she would forgive me should we meet again. And in performing the act, I moved easily about the roads in full confidence.  
  
Before returning to the Hotel Blanche, I took it upon myself to use the facilities in a local bagnio to clear away two collective weeks of insalubrious conditions. This having been done, I felt satisfied to simply return to Christian, if just to check his state.  
  
Upon entering the apartment I noticed immediately the small change in its situation (my eyes having grown accustomed to his uniform conditions of disarray). Around his desk he had cleared away the empty bottles of narcotic and sat slouching in his small seat, eyes turned to the ever- cinereous sky over Montmartre.  
  
I entered quietly, wishing not to disturb his contemplation, and it was then that I saw his tears. Approaching him with all the care I could so as not to startle him, I kneeled beside him.  
  
"Oh Christian." I whispered understandingly as my fingertips went to his cheek and brushed away the warm droplet that clung tenaciously to the side of his face.  
  
As my hand drew away he caught me weakly at the wrist, breathing in with the unsteadiness that comes from open sobs. "You smell nice." He murmured, voice trembling a bit.  
  
Pleased by the communication, I afforded him a smile, "Thank the miracle of ablutions."  
  
His words were low, barely comprehensible even given my proximity. "I feel like I can't breathe."  
  
"You're exhausted," I whispered soothingly, "From all of this." Seeing the heaviness of his eyelids I wasn't left to guess the remedy, "Sleep Christian.your body can only take so much."  
  
He nodded dumbly and was elevated, unsteady from fatigue, to his feet. Fearing his stability, I supported his attempt and laid him lightly on the bed, he being too tired to refuse it. I watched him for a moment as he fought the onslaught of sleep, turning then when his eyes finally shut, but he reached out a hand to stop me. "She--she told me." He mumbled incoherently, regaining my attention.  
  
"What?" I whispered.  
  
"She told me she had been sick." His eyebrows were animated though his eyes remained closed, "I should have done something.we should have left." He made a sound of sleep, "She could have rested awhile.and everything would have been better."  
  
I tilted my head thoughtfully as his ramblings tapered out and his arm became lax once more. Falling out of my trance, I looked over to the table where the typewriter sat, its inherent dust now marred with soft fingerprints along the exterior black. Stepping over bottle and paper I looked to its side where, in just a few hours grief had produced somewhere near twenty pages. And it was seeing the cathartic efforts of literary brilliance that surely awoke in me the wayward urge to read a bit into his heartache, a naughty curiosity that I had yet to censor.  
  
I touched the neatly stacked papers with hesitancy and held down on the bottom edge to ensure there was no upset to his order (and the hope that he would not notice my small transgression). Flipping through with quiet speed, and then sitting to read it thoroughly, I fell into comfortable rhythm. The first page summarized, with surprising clarity, his thinly veiled contempt for the miserable house of whores. But somehow the mood changed, more quickly than ever it should, and his tone was light and innocent. With frightening rapidity, he had made the Moulin's infamous atmosphere laughable, and, in truth, I admired him for that.  
  
He had described the girls, the glitz, the utter debauchery of the club, and somehow managed to make it all appear so sane. And then Satine descended from on high in her classically extravagant style, in the silent ecstasy of those who adored her.  
  
But someone else was to meet Satine that night.  
  
And there it stopped; I crinkled my nose in disgust. But someone else was to meet Satine that night.  
  
The gentle chirping of the lone lovebird caught my attention as I set the pages down in the neat pile in which I had found them. Maneuvering over the dangerous debris once more, I leaned out the window where the disheartened fowl was caged.  
  
Cooing gently, I looked at the brightly colored bird in the contrast of the gray Parisian sky and gently touched the side of the cage. "Oh, how grief is contagious, mon ami?" I whispered to it and tapped a melody upon its side. "I wish you blue birds in the spring.Give your heart a song to sing" I laughed a little as the unused quality of my voice faltered in softness. "And then a kiss, but more than this." Good humor returned to the little fellow and he twittered appreciatively as I nearly purred the words, "I wish you love."  
  
Having been cheered a bit, and with nothing else with which to occupy my time, I looked down onto the streets. I have always wondered at Paris' eccentric pacing, wherein nothing moved exactly in proper time; the avenue's inhabitants moved with aching slowness or, on rarer occasions, with dizzying speed matching that of a whirling dervish. It seemed that the inner sanctums of home or apartment were the only places where real time existed.  
  
I was left again with nothing to do. My primary source of mirth lay in deep repose, and though I was known for such droll quirks, watching his breathing produced little appeal. But for moments, even though boredom had struck, I remained there; basking, almost, in a serenity that came without Christian's fitful consciousness.  
  
I watched a moment as he turned over, as if he were instinctively fighting sleep, as if he hadn't grown accustomed to the feeling yet. Vaguely I remembered a conversation, an eternity ago to be certain. Toulouse had said to me of Christian, after all of it had occurred, and after he had remained reclusive in his 'enclosure' for weeks. Recalling now, I heard the frustrated words, catalogued in my memory strangely without his cachet lisp, "And if love cannot survive for him, I can't believe it can ever exist for any of us."  
  
"It only makes me believe it more." I whispered the response that I wished I had given.  
  
I couldn't remember seeing Toulouse again.surely I must have, he couldn't have disappeared after saying only that. I mentally crawled through the deep recesses of my memory to find something, and I soon discovered it. After he had left, Toulouse vanished into some flat outside Montmartre, "as far away from Christian as I can get!" he had said. I tried to visit him once, but I was never answered, and I recall a woman going up to the apartment. I had spoken with her, asked her for his whereabouts and she hadn't responded except to say, 'with his paints or without his purse'. He had fallen again into the company of whores.  
  
Then it came back to me, the night before he left, we sat in the empty theater hall. In his inebriated state, he whispered to me things that surely could have been attributed to alcohol, or madness, or foible. There was a truth to all of it though, as he spoke of Spectacular Spectacular. He relayed to me that his only hope to go on was to drink quicker than his sorrow could keep up with; it couldn't encompass him if it couldn't catch him.  
  
It struck me as odd that he should be so deeply wounded, after all, he had never loved Satine.  
  
I sometimes doubt that fact now.  
  
Surely that was the answer; that he now existed as an inebriate, a sot who had given in to whatever fantasies were to be found in intoxicated unconsciousness. It was a disappointment though that such an artist should fall to waste, inevitable as it may have seemed. And for all intensive purposes, Toulouse was gone. Everyone had gone.  
  
But I couldn't be unhappy for that fact. It's sometimes easier to have no one there; the charred remains are sometimes easier to view.  
  
I wiped away an undeveloped tear, my fingers trembling in the menial task. 


	3. I Never Meant to Hurt You Henri...

Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge  
  
Author: Laura Fones  
  
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com  
  
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.  
  
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse  
  
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?  
  
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 3  
  
I must have left moments afterward, having awoken in myself an interest that deserved proper investigation. I didn't want to believe that Toulouse was gone to us, even if it was only me who thought such a terrible thing.  
  
Without real thought I had centered again on the small apartment building on the outside of the village gates. Though reasonably small in stature, the structure loomed like a moral superior overlooking the goings-on of the collective bordellos. Quickly dismissing the impression, I mounted the outdoor stairs, my skirt occasionally catching on the outside railing.  
  
I managed to the top step with reasonable success, and tapped against the loft's door, momentarily cursing Toulouse's garret tastes. My knock was unanswered as I had expected it to be, but I knew from prior experience Toulouse's nasty habit of forgetting to properly lock doors. Tilting the knob, for a moment dwelling on its fragility, I slipped inside the apartment.  
  
Rapid, instinctive movement prevented me from surveying my surroundings any further than 'voice coming from chair'. "I assure there's nothing of value to take." A lisping voice informed without relative fear.  
  
"I don't doubt it Toulouse." The chair was turned away from me, but there was no doubt as to the identity of whom I was addressing.  
  
My voice rung in him familiarity, that much was certain, and he moved the chair in its opposite direction to vary his view, "China Doll?" Not a letter was accented as he held my gaze in disbelief.  
  
"As good a name as any." I confirmed his regard and offered my hand affectionately.  
  
He took it in his own tiny fist and kissed the lean, closed fingers. "What on earth are you doing here?"  
  
"Satisfying a curiosity." I replied offhandedly. "I had tried to see you before, but not in a long while, not since the fire." My smile must have belied a bit of the painful memory, for he nodded gravely.  
  
"I would have sent my regards, but." He squinted, as little men often do, returning my hand to my side, "I couldn't believe you would still be in Montmartre." He paused a moment, "Are you still in Montmartre?"  
  
"Yes," I chuckled a bit at myself, "As the girls left, I just couldn't bring myself to follow suit, so I ended up just changing my profession. Change enough, don't you think?"  
  
"How are you surviving?" I wondered how everyone could ask that question so nonchalantly.  
  
"I get by," I affirmed my decision, "I'm staying with someone; an old friend."  
  
"Friend?"  
  
"Yes, 'friend'."  
  
"Someone has stayed?" He returned to his seat upon the plush chair.  
  
"Yes, you know him quite well," I said, testing waters with strange haste, "Or you did know him, I'm not sure which category he belongs in."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Christian." I spoke the name softly, observing with morbid pleasure the change in the dwarf's expression.  
  
He stood and maneuvered to a canvas, his decided solace. "Christian?"  
  
"Christian." I repeated, "Our very own."  
  
"Has he changed?"  
  
"What do you mean?" My tone was as careless as his had been at the implication of my 'surviving'.  
  
"Does he still grieve her," He spat, "As endlessly as he did before?"  
  
"A man does not change in ten years Toulouse," I took a seat near his painting board, "What can be expected of one?"  
  
"Something." Toulouse smiled softly, informing that the words were not meant as malice toward me.  
  
"How can you hate him?" I asked, his cold manner towards Christian alien to me. "He's done nothing but mourn his loss."  
  
"I would love such a gift." He murmured.  
  
"To grieve?"  
  
"No," He turned from me a moment to review an unfinished painting, "To love."  
  
"You must have loved Toulouse," I touched his arm to return his focus, "You had no choice."  
  
"Fine, then." He amended, "To be loved."  
  
"But I love you." I expressed consolingly. A moment later he leaned in and caressed the side of my face as if to kiss me. I quickly recoiled, "What are you doing?"  
  
"This," He turned and lifted the unfinished painting he had assessed a moment earlier, "A picture of perfect love."  
  
"It's blank." I supplied the obvious fact.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"I'm sorry Toulouse." I looked down.  
  
"How can you stand it," Toulouse asked bitingly. "Living with such a miserable man."  
  
"Because his imperfections make him human," I tilted my head, "Just as I could tolerate your humanity."  
  
"You're a novelist," My expression relayed shock at his memory. "Humanity is beneath you."  
  
"If that's true," I retorted, "Then as an artist, it must be beyond you." A moment of easy silence followed, and then we were obligated to laugh at ourselves.  
  
"Oh, my little China Doll," He cooed, in my seat he spoke at eye level, "You're no gloomier than I remember."  
  
"And you're no more drunk," I smiled affectionately, "A surprise considering our last discussion."  
  
He shied at the reference, and refused to comment, "I would love so much to paint you." He went to hold my face in his hands, as artists do in surveying a subject, but I withdrew and stood.  
  
"Would you see me tomorrow?" I asked genially, "Would you accept me back?"  
  
With a slight pause he nodded, "Always."  
  
I gestured a valediction and went to walk to the door, but a small bit of guilt stopped me. I turned around slowly and looked down onto the blank canvas, then onto the impish artist who had created it. "I've missed you Toulouse." I added with a gracious smile, "But then I always did."  
  
"And Christian?"  
  
"He'll get along," I pantomimed indifference, "I'm sure he can live without me for a while."  
  
"I had trouble." He offered bitter-sweetly and I could do nothing.  
  
Raising my head, I smiled ruefully to the little man who had cared so much for me. "I'm sorry." I shook my head, "I never meant to hurt you, Henri."  
  
He flushed at the use of his Christian name, waving me off with a kind gesture. "Please, I pray you," His tone airy, "Come tomorrow."  
  
"I will." I nodded acceptance and left the building without another word, regretting momentarily that I had not questioned Toulouse about Satine. Surely he must have loved her, just as surely as he had loved me. It didn't matter now though, did it? Toulouse was all the same, and I was of the kind that did not resurrect old skeletons. I would leave his mind in peace.  
  
  
  
Christian had slept an entire day, rousing only to acknowledge my presence as I slid into bed beside him that night. I left late that morning, but still only minutes after he had found consciousness and we had briefly spoken. He had asked me about the first night when Satine had fallen, though he was completely oblivious to the fact I had read through his unfinished pages and had anticipated his question. I had then relayed all I had witnessed behind the scenes before her illness was known to anyone. He thanked me and I kissed him good-bye, wishing him luck without telling him where I was going or where I had been.  
  
He never asked.  
  
It was nearly noon when I finally reached Toulouse's residence, having been held up by immaterial discussion with random acquaintances that hadn't seen me "in ages!" and a necessary detour for breakfast. Toulouse let me in with the doe-eyed look of counterfeit innocence and I could just imagine the woman leaving minutes before with her compensation for services. Perhaps it was someone I was acquainted with and had been delayed by in the street on my way over to see him. His luck had a way of working out as such.  
  
Our conversation began conventionally as we sat down: how had the other been, was there anything new we were working on, had we sold anything, and so on. He was the first to veer from the Victorian politeness with a horribly blunt question.  
  
"Has he remained loyal all this time?"  
  
After transferring a guilt-inducing glance to the imp, I answered casually, "I'd think so," Wetting my lips I added, "He's that kind."  
  
"Have you?"  
  
My eyes widened a bit as I noticed the hostility with which he asked. "Excuse me?" It was more of an accusation than an answer.  
  
"Never mind," The coldness was gone as he smiled, "What held you up?"  
  
"We didn't ever set up a specific time," I said indifferently, "I wasn't aware I was late."  
  
"Well, you always were early for everything," He said, "I guess I assumed." Making a low murmur of thoughtfulness he shrugged, "Nothing I guess." An awkward silence followed the statement and we both searched the floor for a distractive topic.  
  
I found it first, "Any progress on your depiction of perfect love?" I asked.  
  
"A bit." He led me to the canvas.  
  
A dark line marked the only change on the clean canvas, not unlike the smooth, curved line of a sleeping woman's hip. I imagined that's what it was to be, perhaps fashioned after a favorite prostitute.  
  
"It's a lovely line." I smiled teasingly.  
  
"Yes," He moved from the painting, "Well, it is progress isn't it." He turned back to me, "And what of you?"  
  
"What of me?"  
  
"Any progress on that book of yours." He arched a plainly creased eyebrow, "The one you threatened you'd write?"  
  
"The Life and Loves of Toulouse Lautrec?" I smiled as I remembered the day I'd dared to say I'd tell his story true and that he would hate the outcome because he might need to reevaluate his position. "I've not yet begun it." Good-naturedly I added, "Perhaps as soon as I get home I'll suggest the idea to Christian and finally start it."  
  
"I'd leave it only to you to write out the truly sordid details." He said. "But perhaps you'd need to exclude a small portion," He elaborated as he registered my blank look, "Only narcissists write of themselves outside of a diary, and you, my dear, are notoriously selfless."  
  
"Selflessness is not the polar opposite of narcissism Toulouse."  
  
"Fairly close though." He conceded, "Then again, Christian's no narcissist, but he's undeniably selfish isn't he."  
  
"No Toulouse," I chided him fiercely, "He isn't. He never has been."  
  
"Again to his defense you come."  
  
"And why shouldn't I defend him?" He sat silent and my voice grew angry, "Toulouse, why shouldn't I defend him?"  
  
"No reason." His soft, venomous tone suggested that I should know. It frustrated me as he always just assumed that I could read his mind.  
  
I suddenly felt the urge to abuse him, "Only a sad, little man begrudges an innocent." I hissed the declaration, aware of the reaction it would cause.  
  
He sat still with livid calmness, chilling me as he turned his head and spat the words, "Only a hopeless whore sinks to a broken man."  
  
"How dare you," The statement was whispered poignantly and I saw remorse in Toulouse's eyes immediately afterwards. "Toulouse, how dare you." My voice was slightly more elevated as I repeated and hot fluid anger singed the corners of my eyes.  
  
Toulouse flitted helplessly as he tried to hold my forearm to draw my attention. "Don't touch me." I jolted from the contact and tried to calm myself, confused a bit at whether my anger was to be attributed to the insult or the implication.  
  
After a moment, my eyelids fluttered, the sign of pending composure, and I was able to understand Toulouse's apologies, even though it was obviously my fault. "Toulouse." I stopped him kindly as I remembered his sweet habit of shouldering the blame for any transgression between us. "Toulouse." I realized I had nothing to say to excuse my actions and my mouth simply shuddered in readiness of the apology's completion.  
  
He nodded me off, pardoning me. Then he held my hand up against his, comparing our sizes the way he always used to. Without words he sadly kissed my knuckles and I flashed back to the last time he had done so in such a way. "You still haven't forgiven me, have you?"  
  
"You never asked me to," He never looked up.  
  
"I've never forgiven you either."  
  
"I've done nothing that needed forgiving," He reminded me.  
  
Holding his chin up so that he looked into me eyes, I said seriously, "Nor have I." He began to protest the reasons but I turned his face, "No," I said firmly, "You loved me, but we were never lovers. Even when you paid me, we were never lovers. I did nothing to deserve your blame." Letting go and leaning back, I smiled consolingly, "We were good friends, that's all."  
  
"Never lovers, ever friends," He said sadly, an apologetic smile crossed his lips. "That's what you always used to say, it was just an affair."  
  
"Yes, love affairs have a beginning, and an end." I smiled thinly, "Christian was lucky, his affair." I paused. "It never ended for him. Satine died, and he could still believe it would have lasted forever." I turned away from Toulouse. "Do you think he could have stood it if his first love had ended as all others do? Could his idealistic heart have coped?"  
  
"Ours have withheld."  
  
"No," I shook my head, "I've never even loved, so how could mine withhold?"  
  
"Don't think on it." He offered.  
  
"Such grand advice," I mockingly intoned, "Why does everyone tell me not to think? Perhaps I want to."  
  
"I meant nothing by it." I looked with shame down at my hands and then back at Toulouse.  
  
"Recently I've been upset." I said, and leaned my cheek into my palm, looking intently. "I don't know why." He seemed crestfallen and moved as if to speak, his knowing look prominent. Then he seemed to think the better of it, and I acted as if I were too weary to notice his attempt.  
  
"This is no way to spend a day with an old friend," I patted his hand, and spoke as to an acquaintance who had never been dear to me, "We could leave this little apartment and go to a café and talk about nothing but Edgar Degas and Paul Gauguin and those few great painters who were not French." I reprimanded myself later for my phoniness, "Maybe you're right Toulouse, I shouldn't think on it. I need a distraction, you must understand that." Toulouse and Christian were partners in misery and they both treated me as a relief, even though I could do nothing for them.  
  
"You could stay here a while," He offered hopefully, "You wouldn't have to do anything, just stay."  
  
I nodded, "Of course Toulouse." The sentence pleased him as nothing else could have and he removed himself to his easel.  
  
Ignored, I went to sit in the heavily stuffed armchair in the middle of the room. I relaxed within it, opting an alternative position, still facing Toulouse as he scrawled in paint. I noticed his 'perfect love' attempt lay still unwrought with the exception of one suggestive curved line, but refused comment on it.  
  
I lay upon the chair for hours as Toulouse continued to rapidly perfect his newest endeavor, my mind meandering involuntarily to Christian. Not that this was out of the ordinary, as Christian often occupied my thoughts, but generally the thoughts.  
  
I must have fallen asleep because I didn't speak to Toulouse again until early morning, when I found myself in a painful, curled position on the plush armchair. What woke me, I could guess, was the fumbling, clanging in what I suppose served as the kitchen. The dwarf, I observed, had the telltale signs of an addict, with red lines like spider veins marring the flesh around his eyes. It was only in the fine morning light that I could see the tired ugliness, and I missed Christian.  
  
My eyelids fluttered in the effort to speak, and I began again in prating. "Have you seen your mother recently, Henri?"  
  
He calmly shrugged, calculating the time past. "About three months ago.she fears for my health, she has since I was a child."  
  
"Now she has more reason to fear?"  
  
"An illness," He smiled, moving away from the direct light, and I could no longer see the flaws of his face. "She was afraid of its severity."  
  
"Syphilis?"  
  
"No." He didn't want to elaborate on the subject, so I quickly changed it.  
  
"So how do you suppose Christian scratches out a living?" I asked innocently, "He doesn't do anything that produces profit."  
  
"You don't know?" I shook my head in ignorance. "His family gives him a monthly stipend.Forty pounds if I remember." He made a bitter motion, "So he can stay up in his little tower forever if he chooses."  
  
"His family?" It occurred to me that I had never given thought to his relations, "What is his family like?"  
  
"As if I know," He scoffed as he leaned against a nearby wall, "He never spoke of them really." He speculated easily in matter-of-fact bitterness, "The youngest I imagine, from a rich household no doubt, and probably heir to an estate beyond his wildest dreams. And when his father finally passes on, our boy will undoubtedly desert us for England and then he'll wallow a while longer." He turned to me, and smiled. "Montmartre needs reprieve from his depression anyway." He made a motion to the sky.  
  
"Well, I don't know him as well as you," I said pointedly, "Do I?"  
  
Though my question was obviously rhetorical, Toulouse addressed me as if it were an accusation, "No, you don't." Lowly he added, "You just love him." He smiled as if I hadn't heard, "My best wishes to your writing."  
  
"And mine to your painting." I left then without another word.  
  
Toulouse was right though, with such reliable monetary backing, the dismal little loft could very well be Christian's proverbial death bed. Going up to the loft, the obnoxious stairs creaking dangerously as I did, I noticed for once that the stair still extended to Toulouse's boarded garret, the one that Toulouse himself had isolated. The strange thing about this was that the planks were no longer held in place. I wondered if a new, nonpaying tenant had arrived or had always been that way.  
  
Entering the unlocked apartment beneath the final bits of broken-down stair, I saw Christian curled innocuously onto one side of the bed, the typewriter across from him obviously untouched. Smiling at the innocence of his countenance, I put aside the warm baguette I had acquired for him from the market and knelt beside him. Running tender fingers down his arm as my nanny had always done in waking me, I lulled him into waking.  
  
I grinned as he blinked into full consciousness and looked upon me with relief. "How are you?" I whispered.  
  
He gestured easily, he was well, and then he asked with purposeful poignancy, "Where were you last night?"  
  
Without any real hesitation I said, "With Toulouse."  
  
"Oh." He nodded against the pillow, "You and Toulouse."  
  
"No," I cut off his remark without reprimand simply because of the ingenuousness with which it was said, "Toulouse and I." I searched for an explanation, "We're good friends. I don't." My gesturing was clumsy and my cheeks were tinged with heat for just a moment, "Not anymore."  
  
"Oh, I see."  
  
"I brought you breakfast." I offered.  
  
"Oh," He accepted the baguette, "Thank you." I nodded his gratitude and lowered my head to kiss his forehead, but he looked up then and the kiss was set instead just beside his mouth.  
  
With a faltering, guilty look to the side, I spoke. "I'll be back in half an hour," I lightly brushed my décolletage with my lacquered fingernails; "I'm going over to the bath house." The whorehouse, I mean.  
  
"If you want to bathe," He offered graciously, "The garret is still somewhat functional." It was no longer a wonder why the seal of Toulouse's apartment was broken.  
  
"Oh, thank you," I nodded and turned a bit, motioning to the line of ribbon down the back of my corset, "Umm, could you possibly help me loosen this annoying fetter? The women at Camille's have always done it before." In honesty, others had undressed me even since my birth in Versailles.  
  
"Of course," He went to my back and went through the unusually delicate motions of untying the girdle just enough so that I could slip it off easily. Before letting me go, he ran his finger up the busk of it as if it were the final stroke in a precious painting. Chills followed his finger down the crease of my spine.  
  
I thanked him, kissed his cheek and walked the stairs to the loft. Though Toulouse had obviously vacated the premises, the room looked relatively similar in its state of upkeep. A stripped bed frame, Satie's rather original instrument, as well as some other furniture that could not be taken down steps, remained in the apartment.  
  
Christian must have been the one to clear a distinguishable path to the bathtub at the side of the terrace's opening, for it was obvious no one else could have been up here. Sauntering over to the tub, I smiled a bit at the makeshift pump that drew water from the base supply all these stories up.  
  
"Thank you Doctor," I said, for no one else could have had such an ingenious idea. Examining the end table beside the bath I noticed Christian's stash of grooming supplies: a soap of sorts and coarse brushes for hair and body. I also noticed the stove had been shoved along side all these with a large pot decorating its counter. Christian may have been suffering depression, but apparently he was well enough composed when hygiene was at stake.  
  
I went easily through the motions, doffing my undone corset and piling it beside the bath with my shawl and stockings. I pumped the water and heated it upon the stove, pouring it then into the tub and repeating the process several times. Finally with the bath filled, I removed my chemise and sank blissfully into the pleasant rewards of my toil.  
  
After a brief amount of silent enjoyment and then a very extensive cleaning ritual using all of Christian's afore mentioned products, I got out of the tub and stood by the window, my only hope that my body would dry quickly, there was no towel and I didn't fancy the idea of pneumonia. While waiting, I took my hair down and let it fall the distance to my waist and dragged the brush through it, carefully undoing each knot.  
  
With everything done, I quickly redressed, cinching my corset anew with little difficulty, and pouring the bathwater down the gutter at its side. I could have only guessed how much time had passed, but it was Christian's rather humorous expression when I reentered that gave me a timeline.  
  
"I thought you might have drowned," He sat up on the bed with a pleased smile, "Another moment or two and I would have come up after you."  
  
"And then what an interesting situation we'd have," My thoughts lingered on my post-bath balcony nudity.  
  
"I had no idea," He said, as if this thought had plagued him, "You and Toulouse were such good friends." There was a strange tinge to his voice that I couldn't rightly attribute to curiosity.  
  
"Yes, always," I said, pulling a chair beside the bed and sitting in it, "Ever since I had been working at the Moulin." Christian's inquisitive look led me to elaborate, "He would always be in love with one dancer or another.I just happened to be a more lasting infatuation."  
  
"You were lovers?"  
  
"Never," I shook my head, "I was his regular, if that's what you mean." Chuckling a bit, "You know, I'd always wanted to take an artist as a lover, just not one whose head rested at stomach height. We're good friends."  
  
"You keep saying that."  
  
"I know," The uncomfortable pause seemed to create distance between us. "You should write."  
  
"You don't want to go out?"  
  
"Out?" My shock was at the idea that he may not have been the hermit I assumed he was.  
  
"Yes." Even through the beard I could see an encouraging smile, "You've been with Toulouse for the past two days, and I suppose I'm not used to sharing you, so perhaps." His pause--in retrospect--was almost nervous. "Perhaps a walk?"  
  
"A walk," I affirmed uncertainly, sparing a moment to let my thoughts linger on the guilty pleasure of the misplaced kiss. 


	4. Attraction Changes Everything (or The Ki...

Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge  
  
Author: Laura Fones  
  
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com  
  
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.  
  
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse  
  
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?  
  
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 4  
  
"Toulouse was never a man so strong of personality as in will to drink," Our conversation had gone on for hours on the small café's patio, and I could almost feel the growing resentment of the owner toward our presence. "But even with all of that, I still have some bit of love for him left."  
  
"I miss him," Christian said, his soft manner toward the dwarf utterly apparent. "He was a good friend. I owe everything to him."  
  
"He's a funny sort of man I guess, but a good friend." I paused and looked down, a good little man, and so mightily abused. I wished I were as sensitive to him as I was to Christian.  
  
"He moved out a month after." He didn't even need to hint at the event, "I haven't seen him since."  
  
"I remember."  
  
"For a month he tried to cheer me up." Christian's voice was pained, "He tried so many things, and.and I guess he just got fed up with me. And then he left."  
  
I leaned in and laid my hand across his shoulder (a move I would try to convince myself was not just an excuse to touch him). "He got fed up with me too, you know." I tried to share a smile of empathy but got lost in the feeling of his skin moving beneath the sleeve. It's a writer's curse that sensations become alarmingly keen at times, and cause them to falter. I wished at that moment I had never held a pen.  
  
"How could he have?" Christian smiled at me in such a way that should he have been any other man, or had I been any weaker, I would have fallen into his arms and kissed him with such blind passion that every single nerve- ending in my body would become numb from the excess of sensation. But I was stronger than that, and I moved back into my chair, trying to appear composed.  
  
After a reasonable amount of silence, I asked. "What do you think you'll do after you finish the book?"  
  
"You think I'll finish it?" He sunk his head down upon his hands as he asked me.  
  
"I know you will," I said, and asked again, "Where will you go?"  
  
"Somewhere.probably a little nicer than this," He shrugged, "It's a wonder-- " He looked as if he were going to say something rather profound, but lapsed back, "What is it that keeps you here?"  
  
"Nothing really." I raised an eyebrow, "I can be idle anywhere I want, but this place.I'll leave it one day."  
  
"You said you couldn't leave it for all the world," He chided me like a child who had caught me in a lie.  
  
"Feelings change."  
  
Pressing his lips together for moisture's sake, he nodded, looking into my eyes. "They do, always." Then he smiled, and in that moment I could do nothing.  
  
  
  
I hated that Toulouse's intuition always proved right, how he always knew me, and how it was him who made my emotions suspect in their infancy. He was again right, and I was again suspicious of myself; I could not rightly justify my feelings toward Christian anymore. The deceitful wretch of attraction, which which one day develops into love, had taken to servicing my thoughts. But I am a writer, that creature was never implanted but had always lived peacefully inside my skull, until that impish cur Toulouse awakened it and I began to dote on Christian; he who was as far out of reach as his lover from the grave. I betrayed Satine in the simple act of thinking.  
  
Christian allowed me to watch him as he worked diligently at his raven typewriter, and every moment I did, the attraction would begin to woo me once more. Matters were worsened as he kept glancing to his side, appreciative of my company when he spied me. I could swear that my longing grew more acute as my breath flowed in and out of my lungs, quickening until I couldn't take it.  
  
"I'm going out," I started with a gasp of air and stood, beginning on my way.  
  
"Again?" He turned from his typewriter and slid it aside.  
  
"Yes." Yes Christian, just let me go before I drive myself mad!  
  
"Please don't," He held a pleading expression, "I can't bear doing it without you here."  
  
"Understand, please." A combination of guilt and pining built in my breast, threatening with inhuman means to suffocate me. "I'll just be gone a moment." I halted and exhaled, returning his look, beseeching him to understand. "I'm not leaving Christian. I'm not sure if I could."  
  
Looking down, he conceded. "All right."  
  
Without even turning back to respond, I left the room, and once out the door, threw myself against the heavy wooden wall, remembering that they were nearly sound proof. Trembling breaths wracked my rib cage, and I begged it to hold its ground until I could get into the loft. Finally up the stairs, my shaking made into collapse and I sobbed against the wooden floor, a thousand curses of my humanity upon reddened lips. I pounded against the bare wood panels with tiny, useless fists and let my tears sink into the cloth of my garments, damning every god and goddess I knew of from mythology or personal belief. I fell eventually, without any strength left, and lay upon the floor like a small, forgotten rag doll. I turned so that my back would lie on the tear-stained floor, curling into a sort of ball and wishing myself to sleep.  
  
My dreams were horrid and grotesque, the pain of sobbing leaving a mark even then. Christian sat upon the charred stage of the Moulin Rouge and stared into the blackened sky, his limbs hanging limply to his side. He looked at me and embraced me tightly, kissing me with the passion that my inner demons would have so desired. We lay down somewhere in the grass and everything was bright again, like it was in the beginning of that fateful summer. We began to make love and in ecstasy I turned over, just enough to see Satine's pseudonym upon her tombstone: The Sparkling Diamond.  
  
We were making love upon her grave.  
  
A gentle hand jerked me awake, and as I screamed for life and limb, Christian's face came into view. So vehemently relieved was I that I pulled him down beside me and hugged him so close to my we breathed in unison.  
  
"Oh god Christian," I whispered as I began to rock, "What have we done?" I cried again, "What have I done?"  
  
"Shh.it's alright." He calmed me and stroked my back, "We've done nothing." He shushed me again as I sniffled, "You've done nothing my little one." His body closed around me as he whispered into my ear. "My dear beautiful little one."  
  
As I heard him utter the words, I broke our extreme closeness and held him at a finger's length, so close still that I only had to whisper. "Yours?" He nodded and my expression twitched in confusion, but my body took on a different mind. Without warning, I leaned in and kissed his lips softly. He didn't reject the motion, so I ventured further, and when that was not objected, I became ever more passionate. Suddenly the innocent embrace of pure relief had become a lustful encirclement that I could very well have charged for in the old days of prostitution. His arms clutched me tighter and my fingers walked up his spine with ardent gentleness. He took me up across his lap and held me firm against him, his actions somehow dominating mine.  
  
But beneath my closed lids fluttered the morbid images from the dream. Satine's brilliant face smiled upon me and then rotted in front of my closed eyes.  
  
Disgusted with myself, I cried and pulled away, "No!" I tore myself from Christian and stumbled down the stairs in panic.  
  
"China Doll, wait!" He called after me and followed. As I fell he caught me and picked me up, trying to explain. Again I yanked myself from his grasp and ran down the rest of the steps and into his room, hastily finding my bag from long ago and filling it with all my possessions.  
  
He caught me in the act and took the suitcase from me. "This is insane!" He went to caress the side of my face comfortingly and I batted him away.  
  
"Please don't touch me." I pleaded, "I need to leave. Just look what I've done to you." I looked out the window and grief marred my tone, "Look what I've done to her!"  
  
He held me at the shoulders with all his modest might, shaking me in a most insistent manner. "China Doll," His soft expression ordered my attention. "I can't let you leave. You're my only strength here." He looked up for a moment, summoning the poet he had long forgotten still lived, "The strength that commands my limbs to work and decrees that my heart continue beating.that instructs the rhythm of my breath and the persistence of my thought. Do you think I could have lived another day if you had not come?"  
  
"You could have lived many more years without me," I said defiantly, trying to stare into his eyes without wistful desire.  
  
"No," He stroked a strand of black hair back to its position behind my ear. "No, I couldn't."  
  
Sighing, I looked down, as if considering. He held me against him once more, kissing my forehead, aiding my decision. Slowly I lifted my lips to his ear, and ever so gently, sang the cruel melody. "Come what may." I inhaled, "I will love you, until my dying day."  
  
Christian gently removed me from the embrace and looked upon me in absolute disbelief, his eyebrows stirring with the unspoken words: how could you?  
  
I closed my eyes, trying to fight my own urge to pull him tight against me. Then I spoke, hiding the tears with success. "You still live, Christian." Again he stared unbelieving. "Let me go."  
  
I pulled my bag from his hands without any resistance, and I put my hand upon his cheek, and there I kissed him. "I love you." Tears made my voice weak and it trembled under the use. "But I'll make no promise." I kissed him again, and he collapsed onto the bedside, the motion enough to send me into silent weeping. "Good-bye."  
  
I fled the moment his innocent eyes looked up at me again, for they still contained love. 


	5. The Letter

Title: La Bon Moulin Rouge  
  
Author: Laura Fones  
  
E-Mail: rb46628@aol.com  
  
Distribution: Red Windmill, the Penniless Poet, whoever else, simply ask.  
  
Spoilers: Of course! You can't have a Moulin Rouge fiction without horrible, horrible, and shameless spoilers pertaining to the ending of the film.  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content: Christian/China Doll, Toulouse  
  
Feedback: Think of it as a much less costly way of paying your favorite authors with small tokens of ego.pretty please?  
  
Summary: One must always depend on the kindness of strangers, for a man's salvation lies in an unfamiliar hand.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own and am not affiliated with any part of Baz Luhrmann's production, and I most definitely assure you, I am making no money from this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter 5  
  
"My god China Doll!" Toulouse took great pleasure in berating me, this fact was becoming readily apparent. "What have you done?"  
  
In a less than somber tone I readily spat the words at the condescending dwarf. "You know, I asked Christian that very same question, but he had no answer for me."  
  
"But don't you see that it's wonderful?"  
  
"What?" His tone changed too quickly for me to emit wit.  
  
"Well, consider it," He was dizzily pleased by my encounter with Christian and was coming frighteningly close to the edge of giddiness. "You've made him see that he is capable of loving another woman, I tried for weeks to make him realize that. By god, you're brilliant!"  
  
"No, I'm incredibly stupid." I clasped a cold hand against my forehead, where a migraine threatened to form. "Beside that, I'm a horrible wretch, and I know it as well as he does."  
  
"Don't criticize yourself China Doll," He said, "It doesn't suit you."  
  
"Doesn't it?" I snarled, pain having now traveled across the better area of my skull. "I came here to escape Christian and all you can do is endlessly babble about his progress. I can't help but feel as if my own pain is being ignored."  
  
"I'm sorry," He whispered reprehensively and tried to sooth the soreness in my head with the cold washcloth he held at his side. "My dear, it's not as if you're--"  
  
"I think I'm falling in love with Christian," I cut him off as he dabbed my forehead and I stared off into space. "God, I can't believe it." A woeful chuckled escaped my lips, "I'm terrible. We all loved Satine, and you would have thought it would be Nini, but I'm the one to betray her."  
  
"She's in the ground," He said harshly, "There's nothing you can do that will affect her now."  
  
Surprised by his untactful harshness, my eyes widened a bit. "You think that justifies it?"  
  
"Why should you need justification for such an guiltless action?" Toulouse had the heartrending look of a man scorned, and I touched the side of his face. "What on earth is more innocent than the act of love?" He was so soft now in the darkness of his apartment, and I nodded.  
  
"You're right Toulouse," I conceded, "I know you're right.but it doesn't really matter, does it." I leaned a bit more into the plush chair and dangled my hands over its edge. "I can't go back now, having done what I did." I laid down across the chair's width and held a pose. "Perhaps this can be your painting of a perfect love: an impossible one. The Unhappy Whore.has a bit of a ring doesn't it?" When Toulouse did not move, I leaned up on my elbow. "You've begged me to sit for you Toulouse.I'll be your model now."  
  
He nodded dejectedly and quickly gathered his paints. I picked up a Chinese mirror on his side table and held it up to my face. My eyes looked entirely absent of any real emotion and just stood empty, as if haunted by the apparition of Christian's touch. Toulouse returned and I set the mirror down upon the floor, stretching out against the chair in a semi-natural position.  
  
"Toulouse?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
I said one final thing as my chemise fell off my shoulders. "You loved her too."  
  
  
  
I kept track of the days subconsciously. I would have thoughts usually that ran along this line: And ten days since Christian, I am now eating breakfast, without him. walking on the streets of Montmartre, without him.going to sleep in a bed without him. My mind now had a vicious obsession to power my writing, and I finally finished a story that had bewildered me for months. So, logically, I sold it, erasing piece by piece the bits of Christian that I had brought with me.  
  
Hours turned to days, and days into fortnights, fortnights into months, and one not so very special day I sat aside, my gaze lingering on the expanse that was the empty page.  
  
"You know that trite, hackneyed phrase that everyone uses when saying good bye to someone they care about?" I said to Toulouse, my heart sickly from lack of use. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." He nodded with disinterest. "It turns out it's true. Christian. I hate missing him this--"  
  
"Oh for Christ's sake China Doll!" Toulouse interrupted my angrily. "You're just as bad as he was. You moan and cry and beg because you've lost the one you love; you're sick with grief over the fact it can never be!" His melodramatic tone cracked momentarily as he confided. "I felt that every night without you and I felt that every single time you'd collect your wages for a job well done. I cried and I begged and I did everything I could to make you love me, but it didn't help." He clasped my wrist. "But Christian returns your affection, he wants you just as much as anyone ever could, and you deny your own happiness because of a corpse who was once your friend! It's like you enjoy your own misery."  
  
"Toulouse." Tears bit into my eyes at his tone.  
  
"No, listen to me," He cut me off. "Christian isn't unreachable, he hasn't died and left you without the will to live. Not yet. But if you keep up with your melancholy and your meaningless reasons of why, he might as well join Satine as you obviously believe he's suited for no one else!" He leaned in and spoke with softer intensity. "You've always been the strong one, and if you're defeated by the simple prospect of love, what hope is there for the rest of us? You can't do this to him. You can love him and stay with him forever; you'd do him no injustice by that, but at least try to humor the humanity that I'm sure still exists in you. You know, it's not as though it takes some great sacrifice of life or liberty, just let him love you."  
  
"I'm not her replacement, Toulouse." I admitted, "I can't fill the void that she's left. You see, that's why it can't be. I can never be her."  
  
"If she was all that he wanted, he would have indulged in necrophilia long ago," Toulouse's acid tongue continued. "You're not meant to be her replacement, just his lover. Surely you can manage that."  
  
"But Toulouse, there's so much more to it," I stood and paced around him. "Love causes misery, indelibly more than I'm in now. And if something were to happen to him, what then? All my love and adoration skewered, and for what? A day or two of happiness?"  
  
"Isn't that the point?" Toulouse defended.  
  
"But all of it," I began to falter, "All of it is just.every second is so miserable and agonizing--"  
  
"Yes, love is agony," Toulouse interjected, "And it's misery, and it's suffering too. It's hard and it's painful, and it's everyday.but, God, everything else about it is so wonderful that it's worth all of that just to have those one or two days."  
  
"How would you even know?" I spat with fervor.  
  
"I loved you, didn't I?" He spoke sagely, "And it was worth it, even without reciprocation."  
  
I chuckled awkwardly. "God, how did all of this happen?" I realized my laughter sounded more like sobbing and I bit into my lower lip. "You think I should go and see him, don't you?"  
  
"I think you'd be horribly bourgeois if you didn't." Toulouse answered with his trademark line--years had done nothing to change his battle cry.  
  
A brief pause before I let loose a tear. "But you know that I'm not going to."  
  
"I didn't expect you would, no." Toulouse affirmed as I walked away.  
  
I stepped over to the side table. "I'm going to the post office," I told him as I donned a shawl. "Is there anything you need?"  
  
He shook his head, "Nothing."  
  
I smiled ruefully, "Of course not."  
  
  
  
As I sifted thought the correspondence packed so neatly in a bag by our friendly postman Jean-Paul, my thoughts lingered continuously on Toulouse's outburst, and how deserved it was. I was being foolish, and he was right that I enjoyed my pain; a writer feeds off such a thing. And that is what I've decided that I am, only a writer. As far back as I can remember I never called myself anything but 'author'; not girl nor woman nor lover nor human being, simply 'writer', and we are all absent of normal emotion. Our scenes and stories are contrived, our speech pompous, and our lives as dreary and uninventive as our books and plays. Christian was an exception, one that I was probably not worthy of. He was an innocent who believed so much in the power of one simple emotion that I am sure he would have died for it.  
  
I'm quite surprised that he did not.  
  
He's everything that we heartless, hopeless hacks would wish to be, but could never--  
  
I stopped as I came upon a thick binding of papers at the bottom of the stack. "China Doll," I whispered the name of the intended recipient and pulled back the cover. The bold title read 'The Moulin Rouge' and a folded stationary sheet dropped from the pages; it also bore my name.  
  
I didn't squander even a moment of debate, and quickly unfolded the letter:  
  
Dear China Doll,  
  
It's taken me this long to find you, and if I even have I don't know. I don't know how I lived before, I can't remember the hours spent without any goal or consolation, but I'm certain that I couldn't have survived much longer if you hadn't convinced me to, what was it, 'expel my sorrow onto the page'. I didn't realize at the time that my heart would be broken once more before the book was completed.  
  
I found a copy of your story at a bookstore in my weeks spent wandering the streets after you had left. I knew it was yours only because of the dedication on the cover. Thank you for that. I could fill page by page if I was to critique it, but that would be a waste, wouldn't it? Instead, I chose to fill this brief, ill-advised letter with unnecessary, childish sentiment.  
  
I love you China Doll. Do you even need to hear me say that? And I know you will never believe me, and I'm not going to beg you to come back or steal you away in the night, I just need you to know that I am here. For as long as I can possibly be, I am here.  
  
You hold now, no doubt, in your beautiful, painted fingers the only copy of the manuscript that exists. Do with it what you will, I don't want it. It's a horrible, glitzy epitaph to the dearly departed, one that has no proper place in the binding of a book. I loved Satine, with all my heart I did. And just as no one else will ever lose feeling for his or her first lover, I will never stop loving her. But she's gone, dead, while you still live, and I feel such ardor for you that I cannot ignore it. If you burn the book without ever reading it or never again wish to see my face, I will not blame you. You have your own right, and somehow I'll find my place without you.  
  
Christian  
  
I almost did burn the book, but it was Toulouse who stopped me. He held my arm down and explained something to me that I cannot even recall; I only remember that I sat down and read it afterwards.  
  
On the last page, beneath the final words, he wrote a tiny dedication:  
  
'I never wrote for myself, I wrote for her.'  
  
THE END 


End file.
